


kingpin

by inkk



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Personality Disorder, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scars make Pete's bones ache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kingpin

**Author's Note:**

> before you read, you should be aware that this story contains self-harm (nothing graphic though) and a panic/anxiety attack.
> 
> (also Patrick has schizotypal personality disorder)

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The first time Pete sees more than he wants to, Patrick has just turned seventeen.

The resulting fight is angry and messy and soul-shattering because Pete has just walked in on his best friend with a razor blade pinched between his fingers and he _doesn't know what to do_ ; he's frozen, hand still on the doorknob and Patrick's just looking back at him with those huge green eyes like a deer in the headlights.

"What the _fuck?_ "

Patrick flinches, the silver blade slipping from his fingers down into his palm where he curls his fingers protectively around it.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?"

Pete's starting to yell now, his voice rising louder and louder into a dizzying crescendo of anger and bewilderment as Patrick shrinks away with every syllable; arms drawing up and shoulders raising to meet his ears as if his body's trying to put up a shield to ward off the venomous words rolling off of Pete's tongue.

"Fuck," Pete mutters, breathing heavily, that familiar ache of soul-crushing royal blue flowering within his ribcage and spreading out to his fingertips, his heart, his veins, the palm of his hand. "This isn't--" he chokes out, hyperventilating, because _this is not how it's supposed to go_.

It's not supposed to be Patrick, the shy kid with a suspicious mind and too much talent for his own good, sitting alone in his parents' house with a razor blade and a bad idea and it's not supposed to be 3 o'clock PM on a Saturday afternoon and Pete's not supposed to be here and Patrick's not supposed to be an overexposed firework, reduced to a redwhiteorange blur as he looks blankly back with eyes as wide and dead as the sea.

"This isn't," Pete repeats hoarsely, stumbling backwards into Patrick's bedroom wall and trying to breathe in the though his nose and out through his mouth like his therapist told him but it's not working and he can't breathe and Patrick's right there but he can't breathe, he can't breathe oh god --

"Breathe," Patrick says for him, reaching out. "Breathe."

Pete's blinking furiously, shaking his head and slapping at Patrick and trying to suck in air that won't come because Patrick's arms are covered up with the sleeves of his stupid, adorable hideous cardigan but now Pete _knows_ what's under there and he wants to be sick.

"Breathe," Patrick soothes, Half-pinning him back against the wall in an awkward hug. "C'mon, deep breaths. It's okay. You're okay."

"I-I'm sorry," Pete gasps, chest heaving.

"Don't be," says Patrick, "There's nothing to be sorry about. Just keep breathing. In and out. In and out. Like as if you're the moon controlling the ocean."

Pete whimpers, dizzy and choking on nothing and his heart's beating so hard it hurts in his chest. "Fuck."

"In, out. In, out," Patrick repeats, and it's so fucking ironic that he's the one doing the comforting, what the fuck? "Do you think the planets are sad, to have to watch us? In, out. In, out."

Pete huffs out a shaky breath and feels air spilling into his lungs as his eyes fill with tears. " _Fuck_."

"Alright?" Patrick asks after a moment, his face neutral.

Pete shakes his head, burying his head into Patrick's shoulder with a stifled sob.

"You can't tell anyone," Patrick murmurs quietly, and Pete cries harder.

He won't, though.

He's worked too long, too hard towards becoming one of Patrick's very few friends to say something that could be interpreted as a personal betrayal now.

 

 

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Things are okay for a while, after that.

Pete desperately wants to grab Patrick by the shoulders and shake him, to beg him to tell his someone, but he knows Patrick already feels like a burden to his parents and it was only yesterday afternoon that Patrick plucked dandelions and quietly informed Pete that his therapist was an alien.

"Her eyes are like Neptune," Patrick insisted. "And they have stars inside of them, you know?"

And the thing is, Pete does know. After years of practice he can finally see the way Patrick's brain works; haphazard thoughts, tumbling around like feathers in a whirlwind of misplaced distrust and suspicion.

So Pete smiles and holds back a wince against the shards of eggshell digging into the soles of his feet, but he doesn't tell anyone.

 

 

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The scars make Pete's bones ache.

He sees them, sometimes, in the rare, ephemeral periods of happiness when Patrick smiles and forgets to cover up his skin like it's something precious to be hoarded away from prying eyes - thin lines, pale and shiny like dragonfly wings tracing delicately across the insides of his arms.

Those golden moments of elated freedom are rarer now, though, persecuted by the colourful plastic container of chemicals he reaches for every each morning and night.

He's still Patrick, but after a while he's... different. More toned down, filtered and out of focus in a way he wasn't before. Dimmed; eyes a little more diluted and blurry around the edges than normal.

He's not hurting anymore in that ugly way he was before, no more constant long sleeves hiding glimpses of crayon-red and slowly-healing brown, but the playful whimsy seems to have fluttered away and left him utterly grounded.

Pete knows it's selfish, but he misses it anyways.

 

 

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The second time Pete sees more than he wants to, the room is painted with crayons and it's so delicately close to being too late.

 

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After, it seems to be that he sees Patrick everywhere he goes; glimpses of mismatched knee high socks disappearing at the end of the grocery store aisle, long, ragged coats flapping out of sight and a colourful hat perched on top of a strawberry blonde head out of the corner of his eye.  
He misses Patrick's wide green eyes and his aberrant clothing and his little everyday rituals, the way everything meant something bigger and those endless gossamer trails of words that seemed to lead nowhere.

He misses the _magic_.

 

 

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Pete waits for four years.

And at the dawning of the fifth year, when the sky is dark and the stars struggle to push their light through the haze of pollution and fireworks, he gets a phone call from a number that he has to read eight times to make sure he's not hallucinating.

He answers with hope fluttering in his ribcage like a starling batting its wings, fragile feathers buffeting his shaking voice up and out to where his phone is pressed painfully tight to his ear and his heart is stretched tight over years of wishes, prayers and hopes; it feels as if he's reaching out through a wall of static electricity towards something soot-blackened and lost in ash that he almost gave up on, as if the half of him that he buried in sand is desperately clawing its way back to life inside his chest, as if, suddenly, he doesn't have to dream anymore.

 

 

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Things aren't okay yet, but one day they might be.

 

 

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_fin._

 

 

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**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :)  
> any kudos and/or comments are extremely appreciated, as always (i love feedback)!


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